


city of sails

by madameofmusic



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Fantasy AU, Gen, Mentions of Violence, Other, Pre-Slash, d&d setting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-10
Updated: 2017-11-27
Packaged: 2019-01-31 08:36:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12678318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/madameofmusic/pseuds/madameofmusic
Summary: Ambassador Bittle, an elf from Neverwinter, visits the Luskan kingdom, and brings with him a political scandal. Prince Jack doesn't know what to expect from the terrifying Ambassador who holds the fate of his kingdom and his eventual throne in his hands.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, this was for a tumblr fill, asking for "elf prince bitty and dragon knight jack" which I was only way too happy to fill. 
> 
> This is definitely gonna have a few more chapters, and probably will get turned into a series, because I have an outline doc longer than the actual fic right now, whoops. 
> 
> The title is an alternate name for Luskan, where this is set. 
> 
> Also, I used a lot of D&D stuff for this, so if you have any questions, hit me up. I would love to talk to you about how I've bastardised the D&D canon, lol.
> 
> EDIT: Fixed some words

The first think Jack Zimmermann, prince of Luskan, heir to the throne, trained for years in diplomacy and decorum, ever says to Eric Richard Bittle, ambassador from Neverwinter is “Aren’t you a little short to be an elf?”

His face goes blank. “Nice to meet you too, Prince Zimmermann.”

Jack tries to apologize, but Bittle’s already introducing himself to Jack’s parents, who are currently sending him the deepest of frowns. “I am Eric Richard Bittle, Teu-tel-quessir and ambassador from Neverwinter. I am here on diplomatic relations from my Lord.”

 _Teu-tel-quessir_. Moon elves. It explains how slight Bittle is, and how fair in coloring. Jack’s only ever met sun elves, and once a wood elf, despite moon elves being the greatest in numbers.

“Welcome, Lord Bittle,” his father says, placing a hand over his heart and inclining his head. “We have prepared accommodations for you.”

His parents greet him more warmly than Jack did, leading Eric up the steps and into the castle. Jack follows behind, attempting to ignore the whispers that surround him. He’d learned long ago in the most violent way possible that if he let court rumors get to him, he’d never survive being king. The scar on his left hip that drags down his entire thigh is enough to prove that.

They come to the throne room, and even Jack is proud of the ambassador’s slight gasp when he sees how richly done up it is. It’s nearing winter, and his mother has had the staff in full sprint to prepare. Luskan, the northernmost kingdom, and bitterly cold ten months of the year, had always been famous for its decadence, even before the fall, and his father’s conquering of the kingdom was no different.

Queen Alicia had taken to getting rich tapestries made, detailing the winning of the Luskan conflict, which only hung from the beginning of the cold months until the winter solstice. Jack had been staring up at them his entire life, and had never gotten past how beautiful they were. 20 years later, he still finds new details every season.

The rest of the room is draped in red velvet, from the curtains to the throne itself. “The tales of Luskan’s beautiful fabric are true,” Bittle says, sharing a smile with Alicia.

Jack’s dad leads Bittle to the war room behind the throne, leaving Jack alone with his mom. She turns on him immediately, and he winces.

“Jack.” Her face is stern, her voice brooking no argument.

He sighs. “I know.” He takes the arm she offers him, and begins walking with her.

“This relationship is a very important one to foster, _melamin_. Neverwinter is a good ally to have as such a new kingdom.”

He sighs again, downtrodden. “I know.” He nods to a passing servant. “I thought before I spoke. I’ll make it better.”

She leans up to kiss his cheek. “Thank you, melamin. I know it’ll be okay.”

 

 

It’s not okay. Ambassador Bittle spends the entire time at dinner, whenever his mom and dad aren’t looking their way, _glaring_ at Jack. The king had set up a small banquet, and seated Ambassador Bittle at his right, pushing Jack all the way to the end of the dais. He’s not annoyed, persay, but this puts him away from his mom and the head of the Guard (appropriately named Knight) who is the closest approximation to a friend Jack has in his father’s court. Jack’s next to Bittle, squished in between him and the old court mage, who is perhaps the grumpiest person he’s ever met.

Jack tries, once or twice, to start up a conversation, but every time he opens his mouth, before he can even utter a single sentence, Bittle begins a new conversation with the king. It’s like clockwork, and Jack’s 100% certain he’s doing it on purpose. The ambassador is Elvish through a through, speech practiced, careful, and doubled in meaning with every word he says.

Jack would be annoyed if he didn’t find it so fascinating.

At the end of the meal, everyone at the dais besides Jack sweeps into the war room, including his mom, which means something serious, something requiring the acute political prowess Alicia is famous for, is happening.

He tries to follow, of course he does, but Knight catches his eye, and shakes his head. _“Later,”_ he mouths.

Jack frowns, but accepts. The servants don’t let him help clean up like they normally would, not wishing to make a bad impressions, he supposes, on the visiting dignitaries that came with the Ambassador.

He takes out his frustration on the training dummies in the courtyard. It’s late evening, nearing twilight, and all the squires and fosterlings are in bed or in town squandering the small salary they get from the King. He’s alone, and annoyed, which is the only reason they manage to catch him off guard.

 _They_ being two drow, a man and a woman, rogueish in look. The first one leaps on his back, and he spins, throwing her off easily. He turns to face them, wishing he’d brought his sword and not one of the dull training ones out here, which are weighted oddly and have never felt as right in his hand as his own does.

They engage him, movements liquid and attacks coming from all sides. They’re saying things to one another in undercommon, of which he can understand very little. He catches his name, and his kingdom, and the word _prince_ , but that’s it.

They move as if they’re one mind, and Jack, had it not been for years and years of training in combat, probably would have succumbed to them. He manages a few good hits though (and they do too, he’s no Achilles), before he finally gets the male on the side.

He drops to his knee, dark blood seeping between his fingers as he collapses forward onto the stone. When Jack looks up, the woman is gone.

 

 

The drow is in their infirmary, sedated and surrounded by the king’s healers, Jack, his parents, and Ambassador Bittle. His wound hadn’t been deep enough that a little magic and a salve hadn’t fixed him.

His eyes flutter open, and he hisses something in Undercommon. Ambassador Bittle says something back, tone staccato, harsh, and then turns to Jack’s parents. “He’s definitely from L’Quarth.”

“L’Quarth?” Jack asks, confused at the ambassador’s tone, and the grave looks on his parents’ faces.

The Ambassador turns to him. “It means the Order.” He stares, hard, at Jack. “What were you doing in the courtyard this late?”

Jack holds up his hands by his head. “Practicing. They came out of nowhere.”

Bittle steps closer. “A trained warrior, not picking up on their presence? I find that-”

“Ambassador Bittle,” his dad says, forcing Bittle to face him with his tone alone. “My son knows nothing about this, that I can assure you. He’s not part of this conspiracy.”

Bittle folds his hands behind his back, and frowns severely. “It’s not a conspiracy, Lord Zimmermann, it is fact. You are aware of my sources.”

“They were quiet.” Everyone turns to face Jack, quizzically. “Their steps were silent.”

“They?” Bittle asks, arching an eyebrow. “There were more than one?”

“Two, him and a woman, dressed in the same clothing.” Jack gestures at the male drow. “I think they were rogues. She ran, after I hit him. They moved like they were one.”

Bittle nods, once. “I see.” He turns back to the drow, and says something that sounds like “Vail usjah ghost bur,” which Jack knows isn’t Elvish.

The Drow bares his teeth at Bittle, and cackles. He says something like “nined or nel.”

Bittle looks like he’s about to draw the dagger at his hip, before he spins and catches Jack’s tunic, dragging him into the hallway. Jack can hear his mother speaking Elvish behind him as he goes, and the Drow saying the same words over and over again, “nined or nel, nined or nel.”

Bittle shuts the door to the infirmary, and wheels around to face Jack. “Tell me _everything_ that happened.”

“What is nined or nel?” Jack asks instead.

Bittle looks momentarily taken aback, confused. “What?”

“Nined or nel, what he was saying. What does it mean?”

Bittle sighs. “Nind orn el,” he says. “They will die.”

“Who?”

Bittle runs a hand through his hair, annoyed. “You, your family, everyone in your father’s kingdom. I need to know _right now_ what happened so I can stop it.”

Jack sucks in a sharp breath, and crushes down his panic to recount his scuffle in the courtyard. “What’s going on?”

Bittle shakes his head. “It’s better if you don’t know anything.”

 _“How?_ ” Jack asks, angry now. From the completion of his squirehood and transition into heir, he’d known everything that happened in his kingdom, all the goings on, the battles and squabbles. “If I’m to be King, I need to know.”

Bittle steps uncomfortably close, voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. “There are things happening here, pieces moving, that you can’t possibly hope to understand, Lord Zimmermann.” Bittle’s face betrays no expression. “I hope you find you can leave it alone, and let me do what I need to do, so that one day you can actually _be_ the king of this realm.”

Before Jack can retort, a scream fills the air. The door to the infirmary bursts open and an attendant runs out, calling for the healer. Through the doorway, Jack can see the shocked faces of his parents, and the drow on the bed, dead, an arrow through his throat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations: Melamin = Elvish for "my love"  
> "Vail usjah ghost bur" = Jack's interpretation of drow, is actually "vel'uss zhah dosst byr?" or "who is your other/partner?"
> 
> My tumblr is [here](http://whiskeytangofrogman.tumblr.com/) and I always take prompts. I don't know when a new chapter will be up. Thanks for reading!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's almost twice as long as the first chapter, RIP.

_Jack holds his sword in front of him, hands trembling around the grip. The dragon looms over him, eyes glinting in the low fire from the campfire. The sound of scales sliding against the slick cave walls catches his attention. The dragon’s tail comes soaring towards him like an arrow, and Jack narrowly ducks out of the way, dropping his sword in the process. The tail slices through the air above him._

_He rolls, and springs to his feet, his sword a few feet away, out of reach. The dragon’s tail is swishing like a cat’s, and a low hiss builds in its throat, which Jack recognizes as the sound right before fire usually comes bursting forth from its lips. Jack rolls, feels the heat singe his clothing, and thanks the gods he’d thought to wear fire-resistant fabrics. He grabs his sword and spins towards the dragon, lands a hit just as a claw catches him in the side-_

He jolts upward, back in the present. The dream, a familiar companion over the last eight years, still shakes him. He tugs his blanket closer against the cool night air filtering through the window, and shivers, from anxiety or from chill, he doesn’t know.

There’s someone in his room. Jack’s hand finds the dagger under his pillow, silently. “Who’s there?” He asks, body tensing for a fight.

“Calm yourself.” Ambassador Bittle steps out of the shadow, dressed in dark clothing, dwarvish in nature by the looks of it. The fabric clings to him in ways that make Jack’s mind go a little fuzzy. “Get dressed and meet me in the courtyard. I need your assistance with a… task.”

Jack sits up, the blanket falling off his bare shoulders, and shoves the dagger back under his pillow. “Why?”

“Because.” Without another word, Bitty slips out of the chamber, footfalls silent on the wooden steps.

Jack’s snuck out before, has been sneaking out at least once a week since he was 16. His father was a fan of the more reserved style of ruling, but Jack didn’t think he’d be a very good king if he didn’t know his people. Luckily, most of them had never seen him in public, as he hadn’t been officially coronated yet, so he didn’t have to be too careful once he was in town.

However, the amount of times someone, usually a servant or a night guard, had almost caught him on his way out of the grounds, made him extra cautious, even if he could explain his nightly wanderings as a request by Ambassador Bittle.

He combs through his closet until he finds an old tunic and legging set. The fabric is rough, and well-worn, stitched together time and time again until they were relegated to sparring clothing and nothing more. He dons them, and considers grabbing his sword, bus decides against it. Ambassador Bittle seems to be looking for stealth.

He sheathes a dagger at each hip, and sneaks out of his quarters. It couldn’t have been any more than half past midnight, but the castle was unusually quiet. Not a single sound echoes from the kitchen as he walks by. Ambassador Bittle was standing near the copse at the back of the courtyard, obviously trying to stay out of sight as much as possible. Jack trots over. “Where are we going?”

Bittle pushes himself off the tree he was leaning against, and dusts invisible dirt off his robes. “Into town. I’m speaking with an informant, and I need someone I trust isn’t part of this plot.”

Jack doesn’t ask about the plot. Ambassador Bittle had been in Luskan almost a full week, and had spent every day in the war room or with a cadre of knights handpicked by the King to be his entourage. Jack hadn’t been able to get an explanation out of him as to what was happening, or why they’d been attacked by Drow.

After the incident in the infirmary, Bittle vowed to stay until “this” was resolved, whatever that may be. Jack was trying his best to stay out of the way, but gather his own information.

However, every guard, every servant in the castle, even Sir Knight, had apparently been sworn to secrecy.

“Where are our horses?” Jack asks, looking around the courtyard.

Bittle shakes his head. “We’re on foot, Lord Zimmermann. Horses are conspicuous.”

_And travelers on foot in the middle of the night aren’t?_ Jack thinks, but doesn’t voice it. Whatever Bittle knows, whatever he’s not telling him, is to keep Jack and his kingdom safe. Better to follow Bittle’s lead. “You can call me Jack,” he says instead, following Bitty out of the courtyard and onto the road adjacent to the ramparts.

Bittl shoots him a quizzical look. “Jack, then,” he says a few seconds later, accepting the olive branch that it is.

“What are we doing?” Jack asks, once they’re halfway there.

Bittle shifts, and yanks Jack to the side of the road and into the barrow pit. Jack tumbles, but catches himself before he falls completely. Bittle doesn’t stumble for a second. Bittle looks at him, and presses a hand to his lips, but begins crawling forward through the long grass of the pit. From the pit, Jack can hear the rumbling of a passing cart, and words being exchanged in common. It’s probably a farmer, or a traveling caravan, but Bittle doesn’t seem to want to take any chances tonight.

Jack follows obediently, glad he didn’t wear anything finer tonight. He can feel rocks catching on the fabric around his knees, and winces when the palms of his hands land on spiky weeds.

Bittle stops, and cautiously stands, barely taller than the long grass. He motions for Jack to crawl out, which Jack does, and offers a hand to Bittle. Bittle takes it, and hops out with fluid grace. “Information gathering.”

“What?” Jack dusts himself off, claps his hands together to rid them of dirt, and strides to catch up to Bittle.

“You asked what we’re doing. We’re gathering information.” Bittle looks around as they walk, eyes constantly sweeping over the landscape. The trees on each side of the road grow thicker as they approach town, and Jack knows for a fact that there’s been one or two bandits known to hide in them every once in awhile.

“About what?”

“The Order.” Bittle’s answer is the most straightforward answer to any of Jack’s questions yet. “The informant knows people.”

“What’s their name?” Jack follows Bittle into an alleyway once they reach the edge of town. It looks like they’re headed for the red light distract, the seediest part of town. Jack’s hands find the daggers at his hips, and he readies them to be drawn, just in case.

“Yorarissa Damrut, a tiefling woman.” The name sounds familiar, but Jack can’t figure out why. He only knows one tiefling, but he hasn’t seen her in months now, since the last time he’d gone to town.

Bittle stops at the alleyway entrance of a tavern. He withdraws a wand from his cloak, and traces a symbol onto the door, before tapping three times. The door swings open, and Jack, who’d been to this exact bar dozens of times before, doesn’t recognize it. “Where are we?”

“Back entrance to the Hog’s Head, accessible only with the code and only to a select few,” Bittle says, inclining his head to the bartender and heading for the back. “Get us some drinks. Cider, if they have it, wine if they don’t.”

Jack nods, and heads for the bar. When he receives their drinks, he scans the room for Bittle.

Bittle’s crammed into a corner booth with a very slight, hooded figure. The corner is too dark to make much of them out, but Jack assumes it’s Bittle’s informant.

He sets Bittle’s drink down before sliding in next to him, and comes face to face with someone he knows extremely well.

_“Lardo?”_ Jack exclaims, voice edging towards louder than it should be. “This is your informant?” He asks, looking towards Bittle.

Bittle looks confused, but he nods. “Yorarissa Damrut. Who’s Lardo?”

The hooded figure draws back her hood, and she’s smiling widely at Jack. “Zimms, it’s been awhile. Shits has been by quite a few times.”

Jack shrugs sheepishly. “I’ve been busy. How are you?”

Before she can answer, Bittle interrupts. “How do you know one another, Lord Zimmermann?”

Lardo answers for him. “I tried to rob him a few years back, and we’ve been friends ever since.” She flexes one red hand at him, and grins. “After I kicked his ass, of course.”

Jack bumps her proffered fist, and settles back into the booth, all traces of nerves gone. He trusts Lardo, knows she wouldn’t conspire against Luskan. His dad saved Lardo’s family's lives during the war, and she holds the entire royal family in high esteem because of it.

Bittle’s expression is hard to read. “I see.” He turns back to Lardo, and pushes his drink towards her. “Tell us what you know about The Order.”

She shrugs, hair falling into her face as he looks down into the tankard. “Not much. The only people I know who left, left long before they were as organized as they are.” She gulps down half the drink in one go, and wipes her mouth on the back of her hand. “They want the throne, as does everyone else in the region. They’re just the only ones actively trying to kill the royal family to get it.”

Jack sips from his own, a weak ale that’s too bitter for his own tastes, but this bar is known more for the people in it than the liquor it offers.

Bittle pulls out a scroll. “I lifted this from a dead drow. Can you read it?”

Lardo takes the scroll, and scans it over. “No.”

Bittle sighs, pocketing the scroll once more. “Do you know anything else?”

Lardo frowns, but shakes her head. Her horns, barely peeking out from her hair, catch the light. “No. I’ll send word if I learn more.”

Bittle stands, inclining his head to her. “We’ll be off, then.”

Jack sighs, and accepts her one-armed hug across the table. “I’ll try and come by soon.”

She smiles at him. “Bring Shitty with you. He misses you.”

Jack nods, and follows Bittle out of the bar.

Bittle waves his wand through the air, and casts a spell over both of them. “Follow me. We need to stop at one more place before heading back.”

Jack feels the tingle of magic settle on his skin, and knows, somehow, that it’s an altered disguise spell fitted to both he and Bittle, instead of just Bittle.

Bittle leads him through winding back alleyways until they stop behind an empty storehouse in the most rundown area of the city. Jack can just barely see through the dirty windows, and makes out several figures. He can’t tell what race, but he can tell they’re casters of some sort. “Watch over me, I need to see inside,” Bittle whispers, pressing the tip of his wand to his forehead.

His body goes rigid with magic, and the faintest of glows washes over him. Jack steps between Bittle and the window, shielding the light from leaking in, and waits. His eyes flick rapidly back and forth behind his eyelids, and his breathing is shallow.

Jack hears someone sneak up behind him, and he whirls around with a knife already drawn. It’s another drow, with an orb of swirling, dark magic held in his hand. He utters something in Drowish, and throws the orb. Jack ducks, shoving Bitty downwards.

Bittle comes back into his body with a start, and leaps up, casting a wordless spell. The Drow freezes, and then topples to the ground. _“Run!”_ Bittle yells, taking off. Jack’s hot on his heels, dagger still drawn. Bittle’s muttering to himself, throwing bouncing orbs of light behind him every fourth or fifth spell.

They crash into the forest, and Bittle pulls them into the thick brambles. The needles catch Jack’s clothing, shallowly scratching his skin wherever it’s bared.

Jack skids to a stop behind Bittle, who claps a hand over his mouth. The sound of crashing and Drowish follows them, passes them, and then fades into the opposite direction.

Jack removes Bittle hand. _“What was that?”_ He whispers harshly, cramming the dagger back into its sheath.

Bittle waves his hand, making the tingling magic go away. “Order members, low ranking ones by the looks of it.”

He begins walking, feet silent on the forest floor. Jack avoids as many twigs as he can, but they still snap underneath his weight every few feet or so, earning him sharp looks from Bittle. Elves are naturally light, and Bittle’s obviously been trained in stealth.

Jack’s a fighter, and stealth has never been his forte. “Why did we go searching for them?”

Bittle stops at the edge of the road, and looks around before stepping onto it. “I needed to know if information I’d gotten was true. I didn’t know they’d have guards.”

It’s an oversight, in Jack’s opinion, but he doesn’t voice it.

They walk the rest of the way back to the fortress in silence. Bittle’s shoulders are tight with the strain of anxiety, and he looks even more nervous than he did on the walk to town. Jack keeps an ear out for more people, but they pass no one on the way.

The castle is still dead silent when they get back, almost two hours later, and the weight of exhaustion is starting to pull at Jack. “Do you need anything else, Ambassador Bittle?” Jack asks when they stop in the courtyard.

Bittle shakes his head. “Not right now.” Jack begins to walk away, and Bittle grabs his sleeve. Jack stops. “Thank you. For coming with me, tonight. Your presence was invaluable.”

Jack nods. “Of course.”

“I might call on you again,” Bittle says, hesitantly. “I don’t want to involve you too much-”

Jack’s thrilled at being involved at all after so many days of being locked out. “Any time you need.”

Bittle bows, and walks towards the stables. Jack watches him go, and then trudges back to his room, and is asleep before his head hits the pillow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy shit, there's almost 80 of you subscribed to this. Thank you, to everyone who subscribed the first time, and to all the wonderful commenters. Y'all made my day, and definitely motivated me to write faster, haha. 
> 
> Hope you enjoyed this chapter, and I'll try to get another one up as soon as I can. Until then, my dudes.


	3. Chapter 3

Jack spits dust out of his mouth, and drags himself upright, for probably the fifteenth time that afternoon. “Again.” 

Shitty lifts an eye at him, and twirls his sword. “Are you sure?”

Jack rolls his shoulders, and nods. Shitty’s the only one who can match Jack when it comes to swordplay like this, and Jack’s sense of self-preservation hasn’t kicked in yet enough to let him stop trying to outwit Shitty. 

He’s going to be covered in bruises come the next morning.

Shitty catches the sword Jack swings his way with his own, and forces Jack into defense. They’re in the practice yard, the first snow of the year falling lazily around them. The fosterlings are inside, and there’s only one or two squires flitting about still, cleaning up from their practice earlier. Jack and Shitty are alone for the most part, which is good, because it’s almost embarrassing how thoroughly he’s getting his ass kicked. 

Normally they’re more even when it comes to duels, but unease has settled over Jack like a blanket, making all his motions stiffer, slower than they might be. 

It’s been near a month that Ambassador Bittle has been in the Luskan court, and Jack still doesn’t know much more than what he learned a few weeks ago in town. He tried wringing more information out of Lardo, even tried bringing Shitty along with him to convince her, but she wouldn’t be swayed. 

Also, apparently she and Shitty were back to dancing around one another again, despite all of Jack’s needling during the summer, but that was another matter entirely. 

Jack pushed forward, but Shitty saw him coming, and caught him off balance, making Jack topple to the ground once more, his sword skittering off to the side. Shitty offers him a hand, and pulls Jack up. 

“We’re done,” Shitty says, cutting off Jack’s protests with a sharp look. “I’m not getting yelled at by the physician again when you start bitching about being sore.” 

Jack shoves at Shitty’s shoulder with a laugh, and picks up his sword. “You know that was well over ten years ago.” 

“Yeah, asshole, and I’m still scared of him.” They begin walking back, shoving each other back and forth as they do. 

“You really think you should call the prince Asshole, Knight?” Jack asks, his mouth turned up into a wide grin. 

Shitty tackles him, hopping on his back and rubbing his knuckles into Jack’s hair, both of them laughing uproariously. “Shut up, Jacky boy. And it’s Shitty-”

Jack throws him off, and goes to tackle him back when he hears a throat being cleared behind them. They whirl, and come face to face with both of Jack’s parents, half the advisory council, and Ambassador Bittle. 

Jack colors, and Shitty picks up his fallen sword, nodding at the group before leaving the way they came, as quickly and quietly as he can. Jack straightens his clothing, and bows his head. “Mom, Dad. Ambassador Bittle. Councilmen.” 

A smile is playing across Alicia’s face, despite her doing all she can to stop it. “Jack. Do you have a moment?” 

“Of course,” he says, gesturing for a servant and handing off his sword before falling in step with the group. The councilmen have taken their leave, and so all that remains are his parents and Bittle. “What do you need?” 

“There’s a… pair of men, here, for you?” Jack frowns. 

“Men?” 

Bob settles a hand on his shoulder. “They say they’re with Lardo?” He looks confused, as he knows nothing about Lardo or Jack’s excursions into town. 

“Oh. Uh. Alright.” He pushes open the door to the banquet hall, and comes face to face with a drow and a dragonborn, in the midst of a heated argument in Undercommon. The dragonborn looks like he’s two seconds away from spitting fire, and the carefully cultivated chill of the drow is crumbling. 

Jack sighs. “Ambassador Bittle, you’ll probably want to be here for this.” Jack makes sure the throne room is shut behind them, and turns back to the pair. They’ve stopped arguing, and have settled on glaring at one another with as much animosity as possible. 

Jack takes a seat, and gestures for the ambassador to do the same. “This is artificer Worskan Prombul-Nymred,” Jack says, gesturing at the dragonborn. “And poet Dhuumyn Nymred-Prombul.”

“You’re… married?” The ambassador looks confused, eyes flicking between the two. 

“Unfortunately,” Worskan mumbles. “He’s Nursey, and call me Dex. It’s easier.” 

Nursey inexplicably has a lute, and is picking aimlessly at the strings, causing discordant notes to ring out through the air, and with every missed note, Dex winces, until eventually he hisses something in Drowish that makes Nursey flip him off, but set the lute aside. 

“We have a message from Lardo,” Nursey says, pulling a cream-colored envelope out of his jerkin.

“You know Yorarissa?” Ambassador Bittle asks, head tilting to the side, interested. 

Dex nods. “We… work for the same people, you could say.” 

Ambassador Bittle narrows his eyes, but doesn’t say anything. Jack picks up the envelope and tears it open. A small calling card falls out, and on the back is a hastily scrawled note from Lardo. Jack reads it over, and then reads it again, before passing it on. 

“Is there anything else?” Jack asks, snapping the pair out of their quiet conversation. 

Nursey shrugs. “Only that she expects you and Knight for Yule’s eve. But that’s a few weeks off still.” 

Jack stands and thanks them, exchanging handshakes with them both. He feels Dex slip something into his palm, and nods as inconspicuously as possible, shoving whatever it was into his pocket. 

Dex and Nursey are gone as quickly as they came, leaving him and Bittle alone in the hall. Bittle’s holding the calling card close to his face, turning it slowly in his hands. “It’s in Drowish.” 

Jack sits again. “I know.” 

“Do you speak Drowish?” 

Jack shrugs. “Not enough to understand that. Do you?” 

Bittle nods. “She knew I would be here, then.” 

Jack shrugs again. “Most likely. What’s it say?” 

Bittle holds the card out to him. “Essentially, watch your back. And to not poke the… dragon?” 

Jack smiles despite himself, and pockets the card. “Okay.”

They both stand, and Bittle matches him step for step, despite the half a foot height difference between them. “What did Dex give you?” 

Jack’s hand freezes on its way to his pocket. “What do you mean?” 

Bittle is in front of him suddenly, giving Jack an intense look. “I can’t help you if I don’t have total honesty, Lord Zimmermann.”

Jack licks his lips, and then sighs, pulling the small pouch out of his pocket. A plain copper ring falls out of it, and he holds it out to Bittle. “A ring, I guess.” 

Bittle takes it, examining it with a careful eye, before waving his hand over it and muttering something quietly under his breath. He hands it back, and dusts his hands off on his robes. “It’s safe. You can wear it if you want, or keep it on you if you don’t.” 

Jack slips it onto his pinky, and instantly feels the warm, familiar magic of both Nursey and Dex’s designs. He’s had stuff from them before, and there’s a distinct… something, that comes from the mixture of bardic and artificer magic. “Okay. What does it do?” 

Bittle looks uncomfortable. “I don’t know. Whatever spell is on it is… modified. Protective, but out of my wheelhouse.” 

Jack nods. “Alright.” He steps around Bittle and opens the door. He pauses right before he goes into the corridor, and turns just enough to look at Bittle. “Uh, thank you. For meeting with them.”

Bittle’s lips quirk up into an amused smile. “Of course, Jack.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next two weeks are me trying to finish this semester so I'm going to try my damndest to get something up, but it probably won't happen before that. 
> 
> Until next time!


End file.
